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Old January 23rd, 2012, 08:29 PM   #621

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This is a translation of the poem "Armenians" by the Bulgarian poet Peyo Yavorov /1878-1914/.

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Old January 24th, 2012, 02:16 PM   #622

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Another Vysotski:

The ships
Russian title: Proshchanie

They will stay for a while,
And then they'll take course
But they will return
Breaking through winds a-wailing.
And it won't take six months
Till I'm back at my house.
Just to set out again,
To set out for a six month's a-sailing.

Everybody returns But the best of our friends,
And the best loving, faithful,
Adorable women.
Everybody returns
But for those we need most
I believe not in fate
I believe not in fate
Nor myself I believe in.

Yet I really want To believe I am wrong,
And that burning one's boats
Will be soon void of meaning.
I am sure to return
Full of dreams, friends along,
And it won't take six months
And it won't take six months
Till I get back to singing.



Last edited by Anna James; January 24th, 2012 at 02:22 PM.
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Old January 24th, 2012, 03:00 PM   #623

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I cannot resist to post one more of Vysotsky's poems-songs:

Pilot's song
Russian title: Pesnya Letchika

8 of them - 2 of us.
The deal prior to battle
Not ours, but we'll play anyhow
Sergei!Hold on, doesn't look very bright
But we'll have the trumps evened out.
This heavenly quadrant I will not abandon
Those numbers do not concern me
On this day my friend has my rear defended
That evens the chances for me

There is one on my tail, but now he is smoking
His engines begin wailing
They don't even need crosses on graves
They'll shed them right from their wings
I'm "First", I'm "First", below you they hover
My course set to intercept
Put out your flame in the clouds,
I'll cover
In battle no miracles left

Sergei! You're burning!
But still there is hope
Time to test the eject But No!
It's too late - and another is flying towards
Goodbye! I'll receive him direct.
I know - our brothers will even the score
Ascending on clouds we slide
Like planes our souls will take off from the earth
Cause only together they fly

Archangel will tell us that heaven is crowded
But right when they close the gate
We'll ask God to have us enlisted and routed
To some angelic brigade And then I will ask God,
Ghost and Son To have my will carried out
Let my friend remain my eternal guardian
Like in this last battle of ours
For wings and for arrows we'll go to God
They must need an angel ace
But if they have too many fighters among them
Protectors we'll be in that case

Protecting - a business deserving our praise
To carry fortune on your wing
That's how in life we had been with Sergei
In air and after landing.

The song is here, the effect if much stronger with it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=...ture=endscreen

Last edited by Anna James; January 24th, 2012 at 03:09 PM.
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Old January 25th, 2012, 11:20 AM   #624

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Being as today is the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns:-

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That’s sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile
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Old January 25th, 2012, 01:09 PM   #625
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The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who toil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
that he'd sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn't see,
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap", says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan,
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
till I'm chilled clean through to the bone
Yet 'taint being dead-it's my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
to cremate these last remains".

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were numb
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows--
Oh God, how I loathed the thing!
And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the barge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the Alice May,

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my
cre-ma-tor-eum"!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow,

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked".
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said, "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm--
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm".

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who toil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the barge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
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Old January 25th, 2012, 06:40 PM   #626

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Leave me a place underground, a labyrinth,
where I can go, when I wish to turn,
without eyes, without touch,
in the void, to dumb stone,
or the finger of shadow.

I know that you cannot, no one, no thing
can deliver up that place, or that path,
but what can I do with my pitiful passions,
if they are no use, on the surface
of everyday life,
if I cannot look to survive,
except by dying, going beyond, entering
into the state, metallic and slumbering,
of primeval flame?


Pablo Neruda
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Old January 26th, 2012, 08:49 PM   #627

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Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.


Pablo Neruda
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Old January 28th, 2012, 05:25 PM   #628

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Feart Mhoġa Neid ar Mhaġ Tualaing
gona ruiḃne re na ġualainn
gona luirg fa luaṫ a n-goil,
gona ċatḃárr, gona ċloiḋiṁ


Mogh Neid Lies in a Grave in Magh Tualaing,
With his Spears Resting at his Shoulder
With his Club once so Active in Action,
With his helmet, With his Sword.
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File Type: jpg deskpoem1.JPG (21.1 KB, 2 views)
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Old January 28th, 2012, 07:42 PM   #629

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Come with me and you'll be
In a world of pure imagination
Take a look and you'll see
Into your imagination

We'll begin with a spin
Trav'ling in the world of my creation
What we'll see will defy
Explanation

{Refrain}

If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Want to change the world, there's nothing to it

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there, you'll be free
If you truly wish to be

{Refrain}

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there, you'll be free
If you truly wish to be


Roald Dahl
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Old January 29th, 2012, 11:10 PM   #630

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All That's Past
Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier's boughs,
When March winds wake,
So old with their beauty are—
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone,
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon.

Very old are we men;
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve's nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile,
But, the day gone by,
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie.

Walter de la Mare

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